


A Simple Investigation

by Sunnyrea



Category: Parasol Protectorate - Gail Carriger
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, canon spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: Professor Randolph Lyall investigates a new rove in London and stumbles upon Alessandro Tarabotti also in pursuit. The two search for the vampire together but what does this rove know about Egypt? And how will this case change Lyall and Tarabotti's relationship?





	

Professor Randolph Lyall sits at his desk in his office at BUR headquarters. The desk of his superior and pack Alpha, Lord Vulkasin Woolsey, lies vacant. This is not an unusual occurrence of the past several years. Woolsey often prefers to leave his beta in charge of the daily activities of BUR while he spends his time hunting or prowling various society gatherings. Lyall frankly prefers it that way as more often than not his alpha’s brusque and brutish demeanor tends to hinder investigations and standard procedures more than aid them. Recently the alpha appears to find less interest in the proper decorum of life; Lyall has begun to worry that Lord Woolsey's age is becoming an issue.

Currently Lyall reads a missive on his desk from the previous evening’s ghost network. Apparently some conflict between a rove vampire and loner werewolf needs to be addressed. Also one of their agents is close to reaching the poltergeist stage and requires containment.

“Shame,” Lyall says to himself.

Professor Lyall’s desk boast a few piles of documents and a box of metal cylinders for their aethographic transmitter, a new experimental communication technology, which BUR recently acquired. However, they only have a connection valve to another BUR office in Manchester at present. The rest of the BUR office looks far less orderly than Lyall’s desk. Boxes and stacks of papers line the walls and Woolsey’s desk. A number of articles of clothing belonging to the alpha also lie draped over chairs and piles of boxes. A cravat hangs perilously off the edge of Woolsey’s desk beside a dirty plate. Lyall’s desk by contrast is an island of calm among the turmoil.

Just then, someone raps twice in quick succession at Lyall’s office door.

“Yes?” Lyall looks up from his document to see one of his human operatives.

“Sir.” A stout woman in plain brown skirts mostly covered by a deep navy cloak steps through his door. She pulls down the hood of her cape to expose thick, not quite black hair.

“Miss Brown, good evening.” Eliza Brown is one of only two women working for BUR and a most resourceful agent. Lyall knows something about blending into the background, women however prove to attain such anonymity with even greater ease, especially when of a certain class. “Do you have something for me?”

She nods at him. “That I do, sir. Reports of a new rove vampire in London just come round two nights past.”

Lyall frowns. “A new rove?” She hands him a sheet of paper. He adjusts his glasses though it is more habit than need for greater eyesight. “And he needs to register?”

“No, sir.” Lyall glances up over the top of his glasses at her. She raises her eyebrows back at him. “Spotted round the docks but nothing official, more like he’s skulking about wanting to go unnoticed.”

“So I see,” Lyall says as he reads the short report. “Drones?”

She nods. “One at least.”

“Any idea where he is from and why he has not reported in through official channels?”

“Apologies, professor,” she says with genuine feeling. “Just the lot you read there.”

“Not much indeed.” Lyall pulls the paper down from in front of his face and smiles at Miss Brown. “Thank you very much, Miss Brown.”

Brown nods at him then pulls her hood back over her hair and walks out of his office. Lyall picks up the piece of paper again. A brief description of the rove in question is included on the page.

_Physical description: Two meters tall, sharp chin, dark complexion, medium build (Bigger than Professor Lyall, smaller than Lord Woolsey)_

Lyall huffs once at the supreme lack of help that comparison provides.

 _Hair: deep brown, chin length_  
_Eye color: unknown_  
_Additional information: Respectably dressed, coat not English_

“’Coat not English?’” Lyall reads aloud in confusion. He wishes he had kept Miss Brown here a moment longer to explain that last line.

Lyall reaches into his waistcoat pocket and pulls out his gold pocket watch, clicking it open. It is only nine in the evening and Lord Woolsey will not expect him back to the castle earlier than three or four AM.

“Plenty of time.” Lyall closes his pocket watch, putting it back in his pocket, then folds the report in half. He stands from his chair, picks up his brown jacket and pulls it over his shoulders. He picks up the report, walks over to the hat stand by the door and chooses his gray top coat and hat. He puts the report into an inner pocket of his coat then heads out of the office to investigate this rove.

 

Lyall’s first stop is London Dock where the report originated. London Dock specializes in high quality goods, like ivory and cocoa, always smelling like a far off promise of adventure in the orient. To Lyall it brings back memories of his service in the Coldsteam Guards in India some sixty years prior and in Turkey only thirty years back now with the smells of oregano, nutmeg and cinnamon. One of BURs vampire operatives once told Lyall that those servicing London Dock would always taste like the most recent spice ship arrived in port. 

Several boats are at dock discharging their cargo so the streets swell with sailors and day laborers moving boxes and crates. Lyall asks around among the various scantily clad humans looking for coin. As a werewolf, Lyall offers little interest to those selling blood but his BUR rank at least garners him some begrudging responses. However, most only report the usual rove and occasional hive members Lyall already knows about. Until one blood whore mentions a new client from earlier that evening.

“Hadn’t seen him before, dressed like hive but not, yeah?”

“No,” Lyall replies in confusion.

“Not rough,” the blond woman repeats with a shrug, “but not one of the London hives, seen them all before.”

“I’m sure.” Lyall gives her a shilling. “Anything you can tell me about him, what he looked like or did he tell you anything about why he is in London?”

She purses her lips, the coin disappearing near her waist. “We don’t do much talking.”

“Anything helps.” Lyall smiles in his most banal, non-threatening manner.

She shifts against the wall – a scent like sweet chocolate flowing off her skin and Lyall wonders if this comes from a ship in dock or if she finds a way to eat some to improve her blood for consumption – then she sighs. “Taller than you that’s for sure.” She looks him up and down, unimpressed. “Dark but not like some African, spoke English sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“I don’t reckon I know where abouts he were from if that’s what you mean.”

“But he said something to you,” Lyall circles them back, “something more than about your wares?”

“Well, he asked about coming round with him to where he was staying.” She shakes her head. “I told him not something I do. My room or none at all; safer by the water than in some house up the West End, I tell you.”

Lyall’s attention peaks but he keeps his face neutral. “Did he say where in the West End he might wish you to visit?” She stares at him silently until he produces another sixpence. Then she tells him, “Holborn.”

 

By the time Lyall makes his way to Holborn, the inns and dining clubs are in full swing for the night-scheduled set. A group of dandies sit near a window in one inn along the Chancery cluster, laughing so loudly Lyall hears them from streets away. He avoids the dining rooms and instead starts his inquiries with the boarding inns. If this rove vampire wanted to bring the woman here, he would need some privacy for his meal. 

Lyall finds three establishments that include light proofed rooms available for rent.

“Light stopping curtains and no cracks, guaranteed,” the proprietress tells Lyall at the first inn he visits, The Blackout, subtle. “Best in the West End.”

“How many such rooms are rented now?”

She blusters for a moment. “Don’t right see why I need to –“

“I am Sectary Prime of BUR, madam, searching for a rove vampire.”

She stands up straighter and frowns, no longer interested in making some money off a renter. “Only one rented right now, been here two weeks but it’s some werewolf, not got the fangs.” She taps her teeth then smiles in an unpleasant way. “Which one are you?”

Lyall only smiles banally at her. “Thank you, madam.”

The second inn, this one named The Black Sheep, proves more fortuitous than the first.

“Yea, just last night,” the man says. “You want I should get you the key?”

“Thank you.”

Lyall makes his way down the stairs to the blackout rooms below ground. The inn hosts a surprising four rooms and the one rented to the new rove is on the far end, of course. Lyall moves slowly, listening better than any mortal for activity in the rooms. Unsurprisingly, as it is evening now, the rooms all sound unoccupied by possible renters. Lyall reaches the last room and turns the key in the lock. He opens the door and steps into the dark room. He finds a bed unmade and a wardrobe with only a few sets of clothing inside, simple but with some color. The style of coats are certainly not English of the season, possibly from the continent. What peeks his interest, however, is the small traveling case sitting on top of the washbasin.

“Hello,” Lyall says quietly to himself as he opens the case.

He pulls out the first layer of papers inside the case. They appear to be copies of letters the rove sent. Lyall sees the rove’s name is Hernan Perez.

“Spain,” Lyall says. “Unusual.” 

The inquisition, only officially abolished a few years past, was very destructive to the supernatural presence in Spain. Any hives remaining in the country lie deep in hiding. For a vampire to travel from one country to another is usually impossible with their tethering to a location. This rove would have to be very old or, possibly, he swarmed for some reason?

“Or he was turned here,” Lyall guesses. He slips the letters into an inner pocket of his jacket to look at later if need be.

Lyall hears him a few seconds before he appears. (Vampires can move almost silently but werewolves can hear just as well). Lyall ducks out of the way just before he feels Perez grab for his neck. Perez stumbles against the wall then whirls around and lashes out with a fist. Lyall tries to dodge again but the vampire clips him in the shoulder so Lyall takes two steps back, off balance.

“Wait!” Lyall tries to say, this is only an issue of registration after all. 

However, Perez does not heed Lyall’s voice. He suddenly grabs Lyall by the cravat and throws him against the wall, just missing the bed. Lyall falls into a crouch so he rises up again in a matter of seconds. 

“I’m from the Bureau of Unnatural Registry,” Lyall says quickly. “I only want to –”

Perez tries for a punch again which Lyall ducks mostly due to his height being considerably less than the vampire’s. He slams the heel of his palm into the bone of the vampire’s pelvis so he flies back into the opposite wall, knocking the traveling case and the porcelain washbasin over. In the same moment the washbasin crashes, cracks down the center and Perez hits the wall, a gunshot whizzes in between the battling supernaturals right where Perez’s head had been only two seconds previously. Lyall turns his head to see Alessandro Tarabotti with a gun raised in the doorway. The gun, however, is not pointed at Lyall but shifts toward Hernan Perez. Lyall has no doubt that the gun holds wooden bullets. Perez rises while Tarabotti aims. However, Lyall gets there first and he grabs Tarabotti’s hands so the gunshot goes wide. 

Lyall feels mortality wash over him like falling into ice water – sharp and sudden and refreshing and cold.

Perez sees his opening, grabs his fallen travel case from the floor and uses it as a battering ram to knock both Lyall and Tarabotti to the floor in a jumble. Then he dashes out the door and down the hall. Lyall and Tarabotti grapple for a moment until they are both back on their feet.

“Mr. Tarabotti,” Lyall says.

Tarabotti nods back. “Professor Lyall.”

Then they both race out the door after their quarry, Lyall in the lead. They hit the stairs and back up into the light of the inn proper. Lyall zigzags around patrons of the inn until he is out on the street again with Tarabotti a step behind him.

“There!” Tarabotti says pointing up the street where they see the tailcoat of the vampire disappearing down a side street.

“I’ll ask you to refrain from shooting him, Mr. Tarabotti,” Lyall chides as they move again.

Tarabotti only flashes a smirk.

They continue the chase down the alley, crashing into crates and dodging the odd unfortunate. Tarabotti quickly falls behind, unable to keep up with Lyall and Perez’s supernatural speed. They cross a main street, Lyall nearly crashing into a hansom cab which Perez leaps over. Then they run across the road again into another narrow side street. Lyall cannot understand why this rove is so eager to flee. Does it have something to do with the curse-breaker? 

Suddenly, Lyall sees Perez jump up onto a second story awning ahead of him. Lyall decides there is nothing for it. He stops quickly, pulls off his hat, glasses, coat, waistcoat, messy cravat, trousers and shoes as quickly as he can, keeping them in a pile near a house with a blue backdoor. Then he transforms smoothly, picks up his outer coat in his teeth, and runs again now on four paws.

Lyall tries to keep track of the vampire’s smell – an old bloodline to be sure but not one he recognizes – though it is difficult in an area of London so rife with humanity and supernatural alike early in the evening. He dashes through streets as Perez leaps over rooftops above. He keeps track of Perez when he finally returns to ground level until Lyall reaches Red Lion Square. Lyall pads through the park for a few minutes but the scent is gone. The vampire must have put on some burst of speed or picked a particularly aromatic area to retreat to. 

As he pants to catch his breath, Lyall hears someone approaching along the grass of the park toward him.

“Professor Lyall?” Lyall peeks around a bush with his ears perked up to see Tarabotti waiting for him. He smiles down at Lyall. “Couldn’t have slowed down a bit for chap?”

Before Lyall can transform and answer Tarabotti’s question with a few questions of his own, Tarabotti reaches out and touches Lyall on one furry shoulder. His bones morph and break and then he crouches naked on the grass with his coat in hand.

“You could have waited one moment,” Lyall says as he stands, his coat positioned to retain some modesty.

Tarabotti’s eyes slide slowly down Lyall once before he looks him in the eye again. “No.”

Lyall pulls his coat over his shoulders. “Your tracking skills certainly are up to Templar standards.”

“Met a lot of Templars, have you?”

Lyall buttons his coat and gestures back the way he came. “I have to collect the rest of my clothes and it seems like we have a vampire to discuss. Will you join me?”

“If only to see what jacket and trousers were worth enough to be spared the werewolf treatment.”

Lyall gives him a look. “I expect you will be disappointed.”

Tarabotti and Lyall retrace Lyall’s route back toward the inn where they started at a substantially slower pace. Lyall hopes no wastrel absconded with his clothing in the few minutes since he ran away.

Professor Lyall has met Alessandro Tarabotti, lone preternatural of London, on only a few occasions since his arrival in London. As his file in BUR indicates, he attended school in England, married an English woman, had a child with her and promptly abandoned her before the child was born. Lyall met him once at his initial registration and a few other times at society events. Tarabotti largely chooses to avoid BUR as well as other supernatural creatures. As he is Italian and has connections, though Lyall does not know how deep, to the Templars, it is unsurprising his opinion of the supernatural set appears to be unfavorable.

As they near where Lyall left his clothing, he decides one of them must lift the silence if only for decorum’s sake. “I don’t suppose, Mr. Tarabotti,” he starts, “you would like to tell me more about what exactly you are doing out here tonight?”

Tarabotti glances down at him. “Would you like to tell me what you are?”

Lyall raises both eyebrows. “I work for BUR.”

He smiles back at Lyall and one cannot but notice how he seems more to bare his teeth than smile. “A perfectly accurate yet ultimately unrevealing answer, Professor.”

“And you answered my first question with your own question so which of us is more ‘unrevealing?’”

They stop together at a blue door. Lyall’s pile of clothing remains near the doorway undisturbed. Lyall crouches down to pick up the pile, putting the top hat on his head briefly for efficiency’s sake as his shoes appear to have somehow fallen behind a stack of crates. As he stands up straight again, all clothing in hand, Tarabotti takes the top hat off his head. He turns it around once in his hands then looks at Lyall again. “I am quite fond of a gray top hat, Professor, not disappointing at all.” He glances down at the brown pile in Lyall’s hands. “The rest however…”

“Well,” Lyall says looking Tarabotti up and down, “we cannot all look so well in a maroon coat and yellow patterned waistcoat.” 

Tarabotti purses his lips. “You could try.”

“I’ll leave you to it.” He holds out his shoes to Tarabotti. “Speaking of, if you don’t mind.” He glances down the alley. “I would normally find a BUR office to redress but I suspect our rove quarry requires a quicker follow up.”

Tarabotti takes his shoes. “I could not agree more, shall I play look out?”

“Unless you plan to watch?”

Tarabotti stares at him for a moment, dark eyes that look too intently. Lyall wonders what his eyes look like under different circumstances. “Can’t have anyone surprising us, of course,” Tarabotti finally replies as he turns around.

Lyall manages a quick return to full, proper dress with Tarabotti guarding his modesty. His cravat may be less crisp, his coat a bit wrinkled but a lack of mirror and a London alleyway will do that to a man’s clothing. Lyall steps forward beside Tarabotti and takes his top hat out of the other man’s hand.

“Thank you.” Lyall puts his hat on his head and takes his shoes when Tarabotti offers them.

“You will have to suffer without spats?”

Lyall chuckles as he steps into his shoes. “It is a less social evening. I will manage.” He crouches quickly to tie his shoes then stands up again. “Now.” He pulls his glasses out of an inner coat pocket and puts them back on his face. “Would you care to explain yourself Mr. Tarabotti?”

“Oh, back to that, are we?”

“You tried to shoot an unarmed vampire, yes, we are back to that.”

Tarabotti smiles. “Is any vampire truly unarmed?”

“In the face of you? Yes.”

Tarabotti purses his lips. “We all have our advantages.” He cocks his head. “And I’m not the one who still managed to lose him despite supernatural speed and smell.”

Lyall stares at him. He wants to counter with something about Perez not running at all if not for Tarabotti but the argument is becoming petty. “Fine, Mr. Tarabotti, if you wish to be evasive then so be it but I must continue my investigation.”

Lyall turns away from the preternatural and walks down the alley back toward the inn where the chase began. He may be able to gain a bit more information from the proprietor or Perez may have left a few more papers in his rush to run away.

“And what exactly is your investigation?” Tarabotti keeps pace easily with Lyall as he walks. “It is possible we could lend each other a hand, old boy.”

Lyall gives him a look. “It appears we may have different end goals, Mr. Tarabotti.”

“Perhaps, but such goals could change.” Lyall sees him shrug slightly out of the corner of his eye. “Your investigation may affect my own.”

“To kill him, you mean? Or was your aiming at Mr. Perez only for my benefit?”

Tarabotti only looks at him for a moment as they reach the mouth of the alley and a main street. “Certainly we can come to some agreement, professor.”

Lyall keeps walking out into the street and down another alley. “An agreement?” He glances at Tarabotti still striding beside him. “One in which you share information?”

“And what information might I have? You are the BUR official.”

Lyall gives him a wry look. “I am sure you stumbled upon that particular room by accident and not by design, Mr. Tarabotti.”

“Fine then, perhaps we can simply see how things progress?” he says as they exit the second alley back onto the street by the Chancery Inns. “I can be your agent for the night.”

Lyall laughs once. The idea of Italian dandy, Templar trained, preternatural Alessandro Tarabotti obeying orders or regulations from anyone is beyond amusing to Lyall. He looks up at Tarabotti. “Then we had better get moving.”

Lyall and Tarabotti return to the Black Sheep and downstairs to the rove’s room. The door still hangs open with a chunk of the broken washbasin in the doorway. Lyall pushes debris around with his foot but does not see any papers left behind. Tarabotti checks around the bed area. He opens a drawer on the side table and pulls out a small knife.

He laughs once and shakes it in his hand to attract Lyall’s attention. “Looks like he may have suspected some trouble.”

“Silver?”

“You can hold it if you like.”

Lyall frowns at Tarabotti for a moment then moves to check the wardrobe behind the door. Inside he finds one set of clothing somewhat dusty from travel. Lyall checks the pockets of the top coat and discovers a crumpled piece of paper inside. Once unfolded, it proves to be a passenger line ticket.

“Egypt,” Lyall says quietly.

Tarabotti comes up behind Lyall and takes the ticket out of his hand. “Two nights ago.” He looks past the ticket to Lyall again. “And how exactly did a vampire move so far out of his region?”

“A Spanish one at that,” Lyall counters. 

“A Spanish vampire in Egypt?” Tarabotti chuckles. “Sounds like the title to a penny dreadful, or some rot.”

“Much like ‘An Italian Preternatural in London?’”

Tarabotti grins, a somewhat unsettling expression on his face. Lyall wonders exactly which type of unsettling feeling the expression inspires in him. Tarabotti hands the boat ticket back to Lyall. “Do not think the ticket gives us much on where to find him now.” 

Lyall puts a hand up on his chest where the letter copies he obtained from the vampire’s traveling case lie hidden. He smiles knowingly at Tarabotti and walks around him toward the door.

Tarabotti narrows his eyes at Lyall. “I do believe you know something, Professor Lyall.”

“Maybe.”

Tarabotti follows him as he walk down the hall. “Care to share?”

Lyall reaches into his pocket, pulls out the letters then holds them up for Tarabotti behind him to see. Tarabotti laughs once like a bark. “Holding out on me, old boy.”

Lyall looks back at him as he reaches the stairs. “I think it only fair.” He raises his eyebrows.

Tarabotti purses his lips but does not add anything of what he obviously knows about their quarry. Lyall makes a ‘hmm’ noise then turns back around and up the stairs. Lyall trots out through the busy inn and into the gaslight of the street beyond. The moon is only half-full and the sky is clear. Lyall holds up the first of the three letters. When he first looked at them in the room below he only scanned them quickly, catching the rove’s name and little else. Tarabotti leans over his shoulder to read as well.

“The Grande Dame of Kentish Town,” Lyall says of the addressee.

“He has information for the vampire queen in exchange for…” Tarabotti makes a disbelieving noise. “What tosh, does he think that possible?”

“Inclusion in the hive,” Lyall says quietly.

Though he does not say so to Tarabotti, the notion of a rove vampire from another bloodline joining a different hive, while highly unusual, is not without some precedence. It certainly has not happened in England in the last hundred years, more like three hundred probably, but further back, when the supernatural still lived in hiding, necessity sometimes made for strange bedfellows. If a rove could prove a compelling reason, be it security for the rove and hive, added power of some kind to the hive or the death of the rove’s queen without a successor, then a rove might be brought on to a different queen’s hive. To suggest such a thing now must mean the rove is in some sort of dire straits.

Lyall shuffles through the letters, another addressed to the Westminster hive and the last to the Chelsea hive, one for each hive queen of London. The contents of each letter is the same; Perez claims to have information of supernatural importance, which he will exchange for inclusion into the hive.

“He won’t have much time left,” Lyall says as Tarabotti takes one of the letters from him for a closer look. “If he came to England because he swarmed then he should only have a few days left until he needs to make roots with a hive.”

“Or he could simply claim territory as a rove,” Tarabotti finishes. He cocks his head at the letter in his hand. “Why so eager to join a hive?”

“He is running from something,” Lyall postulates. “Why else swarm all the way to England? Why else run from me?”

“And me.”

Lyall gives him a look. “You are a different story, Mr. Tarabotti.”

“All that cricket in school,” Tarabotti replies deadpan, “makes me a fearful shot with a bat.”

Lyall presses his lips tightly together to keep himself from laughing but cannot stop a small smile. Tarabotti hands the letter he took back to Lyall. Lyall folds the three letters in half then puts them back into his inside coat pocket. He knows what he needs to do now he would just rather not.

“And which hive are we visiting first?” Tarabotti asks.

Lyall looks at him again and sighs.

 

They make their way up to Kentish Town to call upon Grande Dame Margaret Stuart. The Dame’s mortal line claimed some connection to the Stuart kings though Lyall suspects the connection is an illegitimate one, thus proud and shameful at the same time. The queen herself is still a young queen in some respects, only a couple centuries old and younger than Lyall himself. She was a success of the Westminster hive. Lyall still remembers the celebrations throughout the London supernatural set and day walkers alike. The large social gatherings lasted a week and small private events continued even longer. Now the hive of Kentish Town boasts the queen and two additional vampires.

“What exactly is our plan?” Tarabotti asks as they near the townhouse which Lyall knows Tarabotti has visited once, despite the hive’s desire for secrecy. “I’ll wager you wouldn’t like my ideas.”

Lyall stops under a gas lamp and looks at Tarabotti. “I think it best you remain here, Mr. Tarabotti.”

He raises his eyebrows in surprise. “I should say not. Do you think I am letting you go into that den of fangs on your own?”

Lyall tamps down a pleased smile. “As much as your concern is heartwarming, Mr. Tarabotti, I do not think you will be welcome.”

Tarabotti crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, because werewolves and vampires are so chummy.”

“It is not my first call upon the Grande Dame and I am with BUR.”

“And I am the only preternatural in London.”

“Which would make you the least welcome of all.” Lyall tilts his head to the side. “Or are you simply concerned I will not relate the full details of my visit to you?”

“Two is better than one, certainly against a hive.”

Lyall gives him a look. “We are not against them. We are simply seeking information.” Tarabotti opens his mouth to protest once more but Lyall holds up his hand. “But as you are obviously going to continue arguing until I relent then by all means, Mr. Tarabotti, let us knock on the door together.”

Tarabotti smiles in modest triumph and lets Lyall lead the way as they round a corner onto Grafton Terrace. Lyall walks up the steps to the red door of a white stone and brick building that appears much the same as its neighbors. Lyall knows, however, that the townhouses on either side are in fact connected to the one in the middle to create a far larger interior for the palatial nature desired of a vampire hive. Lyall raps once loudly then takes a step back, Tarabotti a step lower behind him. 

A female drone with golden ringlets answers the door. “Yes?”

Lyall holds out one of his BUR calling cards. “Professor Lyall to see the Grande Dame, I only have a few questions on BUR business for her.”

The woman looks down at the card and her eyes shift behind him. “And Mr. Tarabotti?”

Lyall hears him chuckle. “Oh, I can keep my hands to myself if your mistress will.”

She sniffs once, unimpressed, then disappears inside the house again. Lyall looks incredulously at Tarabotti over his shoulder. He only smiles back. Then the door opens again in front of them.

“You are welcome, Professor Lyall.” Her expression shifts to Tarabotti. “The soul-sucker is not.”

“Such a lovely name for my kind,” Tarabotti says snidely.

“He is assisting me on my investigation this evening,” Lyall says. “I can ensure his behavior while we are present.”

“Can you?” Tarabotti and the drone say at once.

Lyall glances at both of them in turn. “Yes.” Then he focuses on the drone. “We will be brief.”

She looks uncomfortable but moves out of the doorway allowing them to pass. As they walk into the house, Lyall notices Tarabotti step intentionally closer to the woman as he walks by her. She makes a displeased noise. Then a man about Lyall’s height appears in their path. 

“Sir Walter,” Lyall says as the redheaded vampire gestures to a parlor at their left.

“An unexpected surprise Professor Lyall.” He smiles in a way Lyall often does, pleasant at the height of crafted artifice. “We have not had the pleasure of your company in house in near a decade, have we?”

“Because I am sure you invite him for tea regularly,” Tarabotti chides.

Lyall smiles slightly and wonders if Mr. Tarabotti might be growing fond of him.

“You we would leave out in the cold, soul-sucker, but we trust the professor’s assurances.” He inclines his head to Lyall and gestures to the parlor again. “And we do not forget our debts,” he adds quietly to Lyall.

Lyall and Tarabotti step into the parlor with Sir Walter tight on their heels. Lyall suspects he wishes to remain close should Tarabotti even look at the queen in the wrong way.

“A debt?” Tarabotti whispers with interest.

Lyall only smiles benignly. 

The Kentish Town hive was, at one point, the St. Paul hive. The new queen settled rather near her maker and in view of the Cathedral of St. Paul, which she had always enjoyed. However, the 1666 great fire threatened the hive, the queen and the lives of her brood. Lyall’s pack was safely outside the city, the Westminster and Chelsea hives were beyond the fire but the St. Paul hive was not. Professor Lyall, only a new beta under his first alpha then, had battled his way into the blaze to save what was possible from the BUR offices on Fleet Street. However, when he happened upon a fleeing drone of the St. Paul hive he chose to ensure the safety of the vampires. If anyone were to ask him now, Lyall could not recall what possessed him to do so. It was fortunate that he did; fire effects both mortals and immortals alike and the hive was trapped when Lyall found them. Lyall aided the Dame and her two progeny to escape the fire in their swarming state and find them a new abode of safety within hours up in Kentish Town. Neither Professor Lyall nor Grande Dame Stuart have felt entirely comfortable with the situation since then.

“Professor Lyall.” The Grande Dame stands before the fireplace in the parlor, her brown hair threaded with small white flowers and a pale blue day gown flowing around her. It reminds Lyall of water in spring. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

She does not offer them a seat nor address Tarabotti at all.

“We wanted to ask you about a rove vampire who sent you a letter.” She tilts her head, neither confirming nor denying such a letter. “We have a copy of the letter.” Her lips twist a little but she remains silent. “The letter said he had some information to impart in return for admission to the hive.”

Dame Stuart laughs once. “It was a ridiculous request. As if we would take in a rove as one of our own, and a foreigner at that.”

“It is not completely unheard of,” Lyall says and he feels Tarabotti shift beside him.

She looks away at the heavily curtained window across the pastel parlor. “Perhaps but I am not interested in picking up wayward roves who happen to swarm upon my doorstep.”

Lyall nods an assent. “Did you speak to him at all; learn what it was he wished to tell you?”

“He did visit this house,” is all she gives him back.

Lyall waits a few beats to see if she will fill the silence. She glances down at the fire, small but warm enough for Lyall to feel at this distance.

“You have a lovely hive, Grande Dame.”

Lyall and Dame Stuart look at Tarabotti in surprise. Sir Walter tenses and looks very much like he wants to drag Tarabotti back out the door. The Dame nods once in thanks but her eyes shift away from him just as quickly.

“I imagine you would do anything in your power to protect it, even against one of your own kind.”

“Mr. Tarabotti…” Lyall warns.

Tarabotti, however, does not heed him. He paces along the edge of the wall, taps his hand on a bookcase holding a number of modern texts on science. “This rove, no doubt, told you something you did not care to hear, something about Egypt perhaps?”

The Grande Dame stiffens perceptively and Sir Walter suddenly stands in front of Tarabotti halting his pacing. “I believe your audience with the queen is over now.”

“What did he want to tell you, Dame Stuart, please,” Lyall asks again before Sir Walter ushers them out the door.

“Egypt is of no consequence to England.” She shoots a sudden sharp and disdainful look at Tarabotti. “When he told me he had news of something effecting the supernatural in Egypt I sent him away. And he from Spain?" She scoffs. "If he failed as a rove in Egypt why should I aid him here? I do not care to entertain the fears of Europe. They can well take care of their own.”

Tarabotti smiles smugly. Sir Walter appears at Lyall’s side and he takes the hint this time. “Thank you for your time, Grande Dame.”

He turns around, Tarabotti in front of him and they leave the parlor. The same drone that saw them in waits with the front door open in her hand. She nods demurely but steps back quickly as Tarabotti passes her. Lyall wonders if the vampires have begun to condition their drones to fear the preternatural before even receiving the bite.

“So we have missed him,” Tarabotti says as he reaches the sidewalk again.

“Mr. Tarabotti,” Lyall says as he pauses two steps up from the street so he stands taller than Tarabotti for once. “There can be a touch more finesse to getting information out of an individual than pacing and threats.”

He shakes his head. “If you consider that a ‘threat’ then we simply must spend more time together, professor, for you to get the true meaning.”

“I’m sure.” Then he steps down onto the sidewalk beside Tarabotti. “He swarmed from Spain, remnants from the inquisition perhaps. ”

“And then to Egypt. ”

Lyall gazes off down the street. “But something in Egypt sent him swarming again. ” He looks back at Tarabotti. “Swarming here for the safety of an English hive. But what about Egypt? ”

“All that sand, perhaps, can be murder on the skin,” Tarabotti replies in feigned innocence.

Lyall stares at Tarabotti, trying to discern just how much the man hides. Does he already know what information the rove wishes to trade or does he need the information himself?

“We should hurry,” Tarabotti says. “Westminster should be next. I imagine you know the location of that hive?”

“Do you?”

Tarabotti smiles and does not reply.

 

Lyall and Tarabotti make their way swiftly back south toward Westminster. Lyall tries to convince Tarabotti to wait yet again – it is possible he does not know the Westminster hive's location and Lyall would rather not be the one to give such a secret away – but the man will not be swayed. Professor Lyall’s worries are short-lived, however, as the two of them do not make it to the Westminster hive.

Lyall hears the footsteps a few seconds before the drones dash out of a side alley behind the two of them while Lyall and Tarabotti leave the main thoroughfare of Victoria. A dark man lashes out at Tarabotti from one side, punching at his face. Tarabotti manages to dodge with a jump back. Lyall turns just in time to lunge away from a remarkably similar looking woman slashing at him with a knife. He grabs for her hand but she catches him with the knife instead so he gasps in pain, silver. Behind him, Tarabotti punches his own attacker once then kicks him in the knee so he stumbles. However, he lands another hit of his own to Tarabotti’s side as he goes down making the curse-breaker groan.

“Just wait!” Lyall tries for a cease of hostilities but the woman brandishes the knife at him again. He dodges, then knocks her arm back and shoves her in the chest, his supernatural strength sending her flying onto the street.

He turns around as the man lands a sharp punch to Tarabotti’s jaw, making Tarabotti fall to one knee. Lyall grabs the man by the back of his coat and throws him away from Tarabotti in the other direction. He hits the wall of a nearby pub and slumps against it, out cold.

Lyall turns back to Tarabotti to assess his condition then he hears a click. Lyall turns, see the flash of the gun in the woman’s hands pointed at Tarabotti and acts on instinct. He shoves Tarabotti hard out of the way of the gunshot. The bullet hits Lyall in the shoulder while he is mortal – a sharp blast of pain – then Lyall crumples down to the cobblestone a werewolf again. The pain, however, does not abate but remains with the telltale stab of silver making his whole side ache. Lyall grits his teeth and nearly growls at the surprise of lasting pain. He has not been shot, and certainly not with a silver bullet, in decades.

Lyall looks up to see Tarabotti back on his feet. Tarabotti shoots at the now retreating woman. She glances back over her shoulder at the two of them then Tarabotti shoots again. Lyall hears her yelp and she falls hard onto the street with a crack. Tarabotti stands still for five counts, waiting, but the woman does not move.

He whips back around, stowing the gun into the holster concealed in his coat. He crouches down next to Lyall looking genuinely concerned. “Silver?”

“Yes,” Lyall grits his teeth, hands supporting him braced on his thighs, “though she was aiming for you.” He puts one hand over his shoulder and feels blood as the wound refuses to close around the silver.

“You…” Lyall looks up at the strange tone of Tarabotti’s voice. “You pushed me out of the way.”

Lyall just stares back at him. Tarabotti does not say so but from the expression on his face this is a man who has more experience being shot at than being saved.

“They must be the drones,” Lyall says as he tries to shift into a crouch. “We knew of at least one.”

Tarabotti reaches out as if to help Lyall stand then pulls back, glancing at the bullet wound. Lyall gets part way to standing then sways. He grabs out reflexively onto Tarabotti’s arm. He feels himself shift into mortality like falling down through cold air and the pain in his shoulder skyrockets. Lyall chokes back a shout of pain and lets go of Tarabotti.

“Argh,” he blows out a breath. “You are not a help.”

“I could help get that bullet out,” Tarabotti offers as he pulls a knife out of his sleeve.

Lyall looks at it skeptically. “A silver knife?”

Tarabotti shakes his head. “Not this one. You may be mortal if I try but mortal or immortal it works the same at removing the bugger.”

“Wonderful,” Lyall says without humor. He carefully pulls off his top coat then his jacket with only minor winching. He drapes both of them over the wrought iron fence surrounding the closed pub beside them. He keeps his shirt on but the hole in the fabric seems to be big enough for such field work. He swallows once and braces himself. “All right.”

Tarabotti grips Lyall’s shoulder close to his throat, to the left of the wound. Lyall breathes in sharply at the increase of pain but does not pull back. He looks away toward the girl lying in the street as Tarabotti reaches with the knife into Lyall’s wound. He groans in the back of his throat and has to shut his eyes as the sharp point of the knife aggravates already injured flesh. He hisses as he feels the bullet move and has to grab Tarabotti’s arm braced against him to keep himself from jerking away. Then Tarabotti pulls out the knife and the bullet with it. The two of them step back from each other at the same time. He breathes out, feeling his strength return to him, and the wound instantly starts to feel better, if not completely healed yet.

He looks over at Tarabotti again and nods. “Thank you.”

Tarabotti rolls the bullet around in his bloody hand then fists his fingers around it. “Well, it was meant for me. Better I should have it.”

Lyall thinks they have passed a point now between them.

“Well,” Tarabotti pulls a handkerchief out of a pocket to wipe the blood from his hand and knife. “Shall we wake the drone we have left?”

Lyall picks up his suit jacket from the fence and pulls it back over his shoulders, followed by his coat. “By all means.” 

Lyall glances down the road at the motionless woman. He simply cannot leave her in the middle of the street. Lyall jogs down the cobblestones then crouches low beside her. Her eyes remain open, the gun still clasped in her hand. Lyall turns her gently over but her dress does not appear to have any pockets for Lyall to search.

“Why…” he mutters. What is so important the drones were sent to kill Tarabotti and possibly even himself in the process? What could scare this rove so much?

Lyall picks up the woman and moves her to the side of the road. He takes off the cloak she wears and drapes it over her body. He will have to send one of his operatives to deal with her when he has a chance.

“Lyall!”

He stands up straight again and looks back at Tarabotti gesturing for him. Lyall walks back over and stops behind Tarabotti who crouches down in front of their male attacker. He stares up at them, conscious once more.

“Where is Kakra?”

“Dead,” Tarabotti says surmising the name and the woman now under a cloak to be one and same.

The man’s eyes widen. “What?”

“Well, chap, she shot at us. I returned the favor.”

The man jolts forward as if to jump up but a small gun suddenly snaps into Tarabotti’s hand from where it was previously concealed up his sleeve. Lyall’s eyes widen with surprise. The man stops dead staring at the gun.

“You’ll get yours soon enough soul-sucker,” the man growls, his gaze shifting upward.

Tarabotti shakes his head once. “Likely so but not by you and not by your rove master.” He cocks his head. “Speaking of, where might we find him?”

The man frowns but says nothing, his hands balling into fists.

“What is it that he wants to tell the hive queens?” Lyall asks.

The man looks over Tarabotti at Lyall. He sneers and says nothing.

“Tell us where your master is,” Tarabotti snaps again.

“So you can kill him, sir, as you did my sister?” The drone accuses with vehemence. “I will die first!”

“That can be arranged.”

“Mr. Tarabotti,” Lyall says in a warning tone. The drone’s eyes shift to Lyall again. He crouches low next to Tarabotti so the man focuses on him and not the gun Tarabotti holds. “I can assure you that I intend your master no harm. I can help him.”

“And yet you stand beside the soul-sucker?”

“I do not take orders from him.” Lyall sees Tarabotti give him a look but Lyall stays focused on their captive. “Your master swarmed, yes?” The man frowns but does not deny Lyall’s assumption. “Your boat ticket originated in Egypt. That is many days travel even on the fasted ship. To be this far from his territory and not yet made new roots…”

The man begins to look uncomfortable. He looks away but Lyall ducks his head, shifts closer to Tarabotti so the man cannot ignore him. His eyes turn back to Lyall again. “He wants a hive so he will not settle,” the man admits quietly.

“He wants one of the queens to accept him because of what he wants to tell them. What can he tell them that would make any of them do something so against protocol and nature?”

“I…. I am not privy.”

“Absolute tosh!” Tarabotti snaps.

Lyall holds up his hand for Tarabotti to quiet; amazingly, he listens. “Sir,” Lyall continues, “your master, his state of mind, so long to be swarming, even for the strongest rove will no doubt cause his psyche to deteriorate.”

“He needs help,” the man says quietly. “He is starting to…. His mind…”

“Yes,” Lyall says, “and he will only become worse the longer he stays without a hive or settled territory of his own. You see why it would be better for him to come to BUR, to me. I can help him.”

The man shoots another suspicious glance at Tarabotti who remains silent but unyielding in the pointing of his gun.

“You must tell me where to find him,” Lyall says firmly. 

The drone stares at Lyall for a beat then nods once. Lyall grips the man’s hand and stands up swiftly, pulling the man up with him. Tarabotti stands up a second later, the gun disappearing somewhere up his sleeve again. He takes two steps to the side and picks up his own and Lyall’s top hats, which were casualties of their recent fight. He puts his own back on his head then plops the other on Lyall’s head with some aplomb. Lyall smirks in amusement then shifts his hat into a proper position. 

Tarabotti turns to their drone charge again and grins in a threatening manner. “You can take the lead, sir.”

The drone nods and leads them down the street away from Westminster and the body of his fellow drone. He called her his sister and Lyall suspects the relation is by blood and not simply their vampire connection.

“I am sorry about your sister,” Lyall says as they walk.

The man does not respond but simply walks on, Lyall and Tarabotti keeping close behind him. Lyall pulls out his watch briefly and sees the time is after midnight now. 

They walk silently for about ten minutes until Tarabotti leans in closer to Lyall but not quite touching.

“You do notice,” Tarabotti says with his voice low, “we are walking away from Westminster.”

“I do.”

“And yet we thought the rove’s next stop would be the Countess.”

“We could have been wrong.”

“Or it could be a trap.” Tarabotti touches the brim of his hat. “This scamp sending us the wrong way while his master gets his aims?”

“Why should this be a bad thing?” Lyall asks. “I simply want to help this rove and ensure no one else is hurt.” He looks at Tarabotti. “What is your aim?”

“Here.” Lyall and Tarabotti turn to the man in front of them now stopped in front of a small townhouse. “We were to meet him here, after…”

“After your murdered me?” Tarabotti fills in with a nasty smile.

The man only gestures to the door of the house. Lyall smells something faint, like old blood.

“Yes,” Lyall says and walks up the stairs with the man in front.

“Trap,” Tarabotti mutters.

“Or he is worried for his master,” Lyall says, though he privately agrees that the situation would be ripe for a trap.

The drone unlocks the front door and steps into the darkness, Lyall tight on his heels. The house appears to be empty of any furnishing, likely one for rent that they found simply for a meeting place. Lyall wants to state the obvious that the vampire could simply make this his new home. Perhaps it is too close to the Westminster hive for comfort or perhaps he is too set on wanting a hive to think beyond that goal now. The man walks down the hall toward the back of the house where the smell from outside grows. The vampire is here. 

Then Lyall hears something, like the rustle of a curtain.

“Did you hear –”

Lyall cuts Tarabotti off. “Yes.”

As they pass the doorway to what must be the kitchen, something clamps suddenly around Lyall’s right wrist. He hisses in pain at the feeling of silver against his skin for a second time that night. He tries to pull away but realizes the silver is a manacle of the type they use during the full moon.

“Tara –” he starts to shout but then Perez slams him against the wall beside him.

Lyall shoves back with his shoulder but the confined space is not ideal for any sort of conflict. Perez avoids him easily by stepping back but now he is between Lyall and Tarabotti. A gunshot flashes in the dark hall for a moment but Perez dodges. Tarabotti, however, was not trained by the Templars to no avail. As Perez dodges the gunshot, Tarabotti lashes out with a wooden knife in his other hand and catches the rove just below his eye. He shouts once in surprise and hits Tarabotti in the jaw with his elbow. 

“Stop!” Lyall shouts. They cannot do this again. “We want to –”

Lyall tries to grab Perez and pull him away from Tarabotti, tries to tell him that he wants to help the rove. However, Perez still holds the other half of the silver manacle on Lyall’s wrist. He yanks it hard making Lyall gasp and stumble forward, knocking into Tarabotti in the too small space. Then Perez locks the other side of the manacle onto Tarabotti’s wrist.

“Good lord man, you cannot be serious!” Tarabotti cries in disgust at the indignity.

Then Perez pulls hard and shoves them back. The pair of them fall to the left and suddenly down because just behind them, unnoticed in the tussle, is the open door of the house’s cellar. They free fall for a brief ten feet – Lyall sees the door shut on Perez's grinning face. Then Lyall hits the ground on his back with Tarabotti landing on top of him. Lyall screams in pain with what must be broken bones, his landing being entire mortal. He is lucky he did not snap his neck.

“Please, get off me,” Lyall moans with his eyes clenched tight in pain.

“Blast!” Tarabotti rolls to the side off Lyall so they lie side by side on the dirt floor. 

Lyall breathes easier almost instantly as the pain eases and he feels the bones in his spine start to heal.

“Better?” Tarabotti asks him.

“Immensely.” 

“Good we didn’t land the other way round.” Tarabotti makes a very offended noise. “I am not dying from a fall manacled to a werewolf.”

“Perish the thought,” Lyall deadpans.

“Oh, and trap!” Tarabotti says indignantly.

“Yes, trap.”

After a minute or so of silence Tarabotti sighs. “I can’t see well, are we…”

“The door is shut above us,” Lyall says, seeing far better in the dark than his companion. “There are no stairs.” He turns his head to gaze around the rest of the bare cellar. “Or windows.”

“Blast,” Tarabotti says again. “Did that blighter lock us in a cellar of all places?”

“It would seem so.”

Tarabotti huffs and moves to stand, dragging Lyall part way with him. “Stop!” Lyall snaps, hissing at the sting of the silver on his wrist. “You are locked onto me.”

“I had noticed.”

“Then wait a moment, my spine is repairing.” Lyall sighs and rubs his eyes under his glasses, still miraculously on his face. “It will take longer than a few seconds.”

“Yes, and while we dally, our crazed rove escapes once more!”

“We are manacled together,” Lyall says slowly as he stares up at the wood ceiling high above them, “locked in a cellar after falling almost twice my height. You must make some allowances, Mr. Tarabotti.”

After a pause he says, “Alessandro.”

Lyall turns his head and looks at the man now seated beside him again. “What?”

Tarabotti turns to look at him in the dark, black hair falling in his face. “I think we have reached the point of first names, professor. Call me Alessandro.”

Lyall sits up slowly, his back mostly back to proper form, less broken then he had feared. He can see the expression on Tarabotti's face. It seems interested, intrigued even. Lyall nods even if Tarabotti cannot see it. “Alessandro then.” He rolls his shoulders and has the strange urge to grip Tarabotti's hand. “And you may call me Randolph.”

He sees Tarabotti smile in a genuine way. “Randolph.” He chuckles. “Are you ever called Randy?” Lyall frowns deeply and does not reply. After a beat Tarabotti says, “I shall take your silence to mean no.”

“Would you enjoy being called Sandy?”

“As a matter of fact, I am at times.”

Lyall raises his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Rhymes with ‘dandy,’ you see.”

“I don’t.”

He makes an ‘hmm’ noise. “Well.” Then he taps their bound hands on the dirt. “Might we stand now and find a way out of this prison?”

“Yes.”

They stand up in sync. The manacle chafes where it rests against Lyall’s skin and each time he moves it stings anew. He tries to ignore it. 

Tarabotti reaches up the wall toward the door above them. “It’s too high for me.”

“I could reach it if I jumped,” Lyall says, “but I don’t think I could jump with enough finesse with you as a weight.”

“I’d rather you not.” 

Lyall listens for noises above them. He can hear what sounds like one person. The steps fall heavy, ponderous even, not the near silent pace of a seasoned vampire. 

“I think Perez has gone.”

“Westminster or Chelsea?”

“I can only hear so far.”

“We need to get these off,” Tarabotti says shaking their bound hands. 

Lyall hisses once. He grimaces and looks up at the door above them again. “I agree.” He takes a step back to see better in the black. He discerns a small sliver of light from under the door. There appears to be about a six-inch landing at the door where stairs would normally feed. “I might be able to fit there.”

“Where?”

“On the landing.” Lyall gestures to Tarabotti. “If you help me up I could try the door.”

“With your mortal strength?” Tarabotti says incredulously. “And still attached to me?"

“Unless you would rather stay down here indefinitely, ‘manacled to a werewolf.’” Lyall says with an edge to his tone. “Or it is your fine suit you fear for?”

“My dear Randolph, I always fear for my suit but some things cannot be helped, I suppose.”

Lyall flusters slightly at the 'my dear' before his name but he must focus on the task at hand: escape. "We would be remiss not to try."

"Right then, up you go."

Lyall puts his free hand on Tarabotti's shoulder, feels his strength and senses fade back, then puts his shoe in Tarabotti's free hand. The two of them brace their paired hands against the wall and use it to help hoist Lyall higher up. They wobble for a moment, Tarabotti only having so much strength in one arm. However, the support of the wall helps and Tarabotti uses his shoulder to brace his hand holding Lyall's foot. Lyall moves his free hand around, reaches up and grasps the small landing at the door. He shifts so his forearm is flat on the ledge and he pushes against the door with his palm; locked, as expected

"It's locked," he says somewhat needlessly.

He wants to push more on the door but his other arm pulls downward still locked onto Tarabotti's. He cannot get more purchase on the ledge. He tries to reach up higher but the doorknob lies a yard above him. 

Then Tarabotti shifts, Lyall's elbow loses its stability on the landing and Lyall falls. Tarabotti catches him – an 'oof' from Lyall, a groan from Tarabotti and both stumbling back into the wall. Neither of them move or speak for a long moment.

"So, no good then?" Tarabotti asks quietly, his arms around Lyall holding him up off the ground and against the wall where he fell.

"No," Lyall replies, his hands tight on Tarabotti's shoulders to stop his decent.

Tarabotti leans into Lyall against the wall, to keep him there, then lets go of Lyall with his non-manacled hand. He reaches up and takes off Lyall's glasses, Tarabotti's eyes clearly adjusted to the dark now.

"Why do you wear these?" he asks.

"I like them."

"But they do get in the way," Tarabotti says as he folds them up and puts them in his pocket.

Lyall raises both eyebrows. "They're not in the way now."

Tarabotti leans in and kisses Lyall. Lyall has not kissed anyone as a mortal since he was turned. Alessandro tastes like brandy, smells like gun smoke – feels rough, warm and very human.

Tarabotti pulls back and they look at each other in the dark.

"Alessandro."

"Randolph."

"You are absurd."

"At times."

Tarabotti kisses him again, pressing him back against the stone wall, insistent and greedy in his kisses. He moves their manacled hands so he can run his hand down Lyall's side. Lyall slides slowly down the wall in Tarabotti's embrace until he has to tilt his head up to maintain their kiss, his feet back on the ground. He finds his one hand sliding up into Tarabotti's dark hair, thick and enough to pull if he wanted. He thinks Tarabotti reminds him of silver, sharp, like fire and unavoidable once touched.

Tarabotti pulls back inciting a small, somewhat shameful, gasp from Lyall.

Tarabotti smiles in what Lyall would call a wolfish manner. "Well."

"Well," Lyall repeats then adds, "that was interesting."

"I surprise even myself sometimes," Tarabotti replies with an actual tone of surprise to his voice.

"But it does not extract us from this cellar."

"No."

Suddenly they hear a crashing noise above them. Tarabotti pulls back, freeing Lyall from his temporary mortality. His hearing returns to its supernatural levels and the sound of a fight upstairs becomes absolutely clear.

"Someone is fighting."

Lyall leans down and picks up a top hat off the floor. Closer inspection proves it to be Tarabotti's. He holds it out to the man. Tarabotti smiles at him.

Lyall smiles back. "Must keep you looking your best."

Something crashes loud enough for any mortal to hear followed by a shout. Then silence returns. After two seconds they hear the sound of a key in the door above them. The door opens and faint light shines down on them. Then a blond head appears.

"Professor Lyall?"

Lyall sniffs and recognizes the Kentish Town hive. "Count Wallace?"

He drops down what appears to be a rope. Lyall and Tarabotti both grasp the rope with their manacled hands, uncomfortable as it may be with silver affecting Lyall again. Then Wallace pulls them both up and back onto the first level of the house.

"What have you got on your wrists?" Wallace asks.

"Manacles," Tarabotti says with annoyance. "And some help with that would not go amiss."

Wallace looks at Lyall with confusion then notices the manacles are made of silver. He nods, "of course." Wallace grabs the middle of the manacles in two hands and breaks them in half.

"Now a fashionable bracelet and yet still silver to our poor werewolf friend here," Tarabotti chastises.

Wallace frowns deeply but Lyall puts up a hand between the two of them. "We are most grateful for your assistance, Count Wallace."

"My queen sent me to ensure your safety." Lyall schools his features to hide his surprise. "She could see the madness of territory loss and swarming coming on the rove." Wallace inclines his head once to Lyall. "And we repay our debts, professor."

"Thank you, consider it repaid in full."

Count Wallace nods then holds up Lyall's top hat. Lyall smiles in thanks and takes the hat from Wallace. "The rove was not here," Wallace continues. "And I was forced to kill his drone."

Tarabotti makes a disgruntled noise. "We should go now. We have to catch him before he reaches Westminster or Chelsea."

"Because you fear he may be in a state of mind to harm the hives?" Lyall says.

Tarabotti stares at him and says nothing.

"I would suggest you find him," Wallace says. "Drones can become just as crazed when their master is effected and this drone fought like a wild man." He fixes Lyall with a look. "If you were merely concerned before, this rove is your BUR duty now to contain."

Lyall nods. "Thank you Count Wallace and thank the Grande Dame."

Wallace nods back. "Professor." He shoots a look at Tarabotti. "Soul-sucker."

"Vampire."

Wallace curls up his lip in disdain at Tarabotti then turns and walks away from them toward the front door. Tarabotti looks at Lyall then reaches out and grasps him by the wrist.

"What are...."

Tarabotti pulls them back into the kitchen. He opens a few drawers until he finds a fork. He bends the prongs so one is bent forward alone. He puts the single prong into the lock of the manacle on Lyall's wrist. Lyall winches as the silver manacle presses hard against his wrist. Then the lock clicks open, Tarabotti pulls the manacle off Lyall's wrist and drops it on the floor. 

"Feel better?"

Lyall stares at him for two beats in surprise at Tarabotti's attention to his discomfort. Perhaps kisses in surprises situations can do more for personal relations than one might expect. "Yes."

Tarabotti looks down at the manacle still on his wrist then uses the fork once again until the manacle drops discarded to the floor. He looks up at Lyall again. "Now, shall we go find Perez?"

"The question is, where do we go?"

"Westminster is closer," Tarabotti starts. 

"But Chelsea is a younger hive," Lyall finishes. There is only one option. Lyall puts his top hat on his head. "You know the location of the Westminster hive?" Tarabotti raises his eyebrows and does not say no. "You go to Westminster, I will go to Chelsea." 

"Excellent."

They walk toward the front door but Lyall stops on the front step. He turns back to Tarabotti. "Do not shoot him."

"I shall do my level best."

Lyall stares at him and unfortunately cannot tell if the man is lying. However, he has no choice but to trust him. He nods and walks down the stairs. 

Lyall heads west while Tarabotti heads east. Lyall moves quickly with his supernatural speed. It is not long before he recognizes the scent of the continent, old blood and fear. 

"Perez!"

The rove turns around near an entrance to Belgrave Square Garden. His eyes stare as if he cannot see Lyall for a moment. Then he twitches and shifts his stance.

He squints and shows his fangs. "The werewolf..."

"I am Professor Lyall of BUR. I spoke to your drone. I know you are swarming. I can help you."

"Help me? A werewolf? And what help would you provide? Would you save us all from the terror to the east? Can you? Do you know?" He speaks rapidly, words stumbling over each other as if he does not actually say them to Lyall. "Help? You? I need a hive, only the hive is safety."

"You need to make roots. The hives will not take you in just for whatever information you have. You need to make your own territory."

"Mine? Mine, lost. As far away as I could get and here I am, England. What do you English know of a supernatural fear, a real fear of death?"

Lyall starts to walk slowly closer to Perez. "I can find you a space to claim. Your mind is becoming effected. You need to stabilize."

"You," Perez's voice drops, his fangs retract again and he suddenly sounds far more coherent. "You were with him, the soul sucker."

"He was helping me, just like I can help you."

"Help? You think he wishes to help us at all? All he wishes for us is death." Perez cocks his head and takes two steps closer to Lyall. "Do you know what is happening, what is coming?"

"I will listen if you wish to tell me," Lyall says, almost within touching distance to the rove vampire now, "but we must help you first."

Suddenly Perez makes an almost animalistic noise and his fangs bare. "I can help you, werewolf!"

Perez grabs Lyall's neck and slams him back against the fence surrounding the park. Lyall grasps Perez's wrist and tries to twist his hand off. Perez, however, keeps squeezing and shoving Lyall back as if he could throw Lyall straight through the bars. Lyall digs his fingers into Perez's arm until Perez shouts and drops Lyall. Lyall jumps back away from the fence and Perez.

"Stop, I can help," Lyall insists. He cannot let this continue.

Perez's eyes roll, he shakes his head as if he cannot make sense of the world around him. He moves with his vampire speed, faster than Lyall, and knocks Lyall onto his back. He pulls a knife from his sleeve and stabs it down into the stone just beside Lyall's head, nicking his ear. Lyall hisses at the feeling of silver for the third time tonight.

“Ask him, ask your soul-sucker, he knows.” Lyall groans, tries to push Perez off him. “How can you help him with what he has done, what he is doing?”

Perez yanks the knife back out of the stone with a shout almost like a scream. Lyall has never seen a vampire untethered and crazed like this before. He grabs Perez's one arm, twisting it hard but Perez does not let up. There may be no going back. Perez pulls his arm with the knife back and Lyall thinks this vampire may actually kill him. Then Lyall hears a gunshot. Perez freezes, his eyes wide and dark, black blood starts to stain his chest.

"Perez..."

He slumps forward on top of Lyall. Lyall shifts around and pushes Perez off him onto the street. He sits up and sees Tarabotti lower his arms with a small, pearl handled gun in hand. Sundowner bullets for sure.

"Alessandro..."

Tarabotti walks over, his gun still trained on Perez who lies motionless on the street.

"He's dead," Lyall says. "You shot him."

"He would have stabbed you and not even a werewolf can survive a silver blade to the heart."

"He may not have killed me."

"Or he might have."

Lyall stands up, picking up his top hat again for the umpteenth time that evening. He stares down at Perez, face down on the street. The night began as a simple investigation of rove registration and now he has two dead drones and a dead vampire.

"Lord Woolsey will not be happy," Lyall mutters to himself; nor will the potentate or even the dewan. He looks up at Tarabotti again. "What was it that he knew?" Lyall asks. "About Egypt?"

Tarabotti looks levelly back at him. "I don't know." Lyall is certain this time the man lies. "But what's done is done," Tarabotti says and Lyall cannot help thinking Tarabotti obtained exactly what he wanted all along.

"Yes." Lyall cannot deny, however, despite whatever Tarabotti's aims may have been that Perez's intent was deadly. "Thank you for helping me."

Tarabotti holsters his gun again and nods. "A pleasure. As the supernatural go, you are..." 

Lyall puts his top hat back on his head and raises his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Unusual."

"High praise."

Lyall tips his hat to Tarabotti then crosses the street down to the next intersection. A group of urchins wait on the corner, a few hocking cigarettes and other trinkets. Lyall offers them a sixpence each to run to the nearest BUR headquarters and send agents to the park and to Victoria where the girl lies under a coat. "Hurry." The urchins scatter with all the speed of young boys who live with no supervision but those that offer coin.

When Lyall turns back around, Tarabotti waits right behind him.

"Mr. Tarabotti." Tarabotti cocks his head and gives Lyall a look. "Alessandro." Tarabotti smiles. "I thank you again for your help this evening and..." He thinks about the feeling of rough lips and a body flush against his own. "You are certainly a singular man."

Tarabotti steps into Lyall's personal space so they are just not touching. He stares at Lyall then reaches into his pocket and pulls out Lyall's glasses. Lyall takes them from Tarabotti and puts them back on his face.

"You interest me, Randolph."

"I usually endeavor not to be such."

"Then you have failed this time, old boy."

Lyall leans up and kisses Tarabotti again, brief but deep – cold air Lyall never feels around them and Alessandro so warm, like any soul Lyall has left feeds into him and makes him smell like cinnamon and musk. Then Lyall leans back again, immortal and the mixed smells of London around them. "Fortunate for me," he adds.

Tarabotti watches him from under dark lashes and he looks so very Italian. Then he touches the edge of his top hat and steps backward. "We should do this again sometime."

Lyall raises an eyebrow with a smirk. "Which part?"

"All of it, Randolph." Then Tarabotti turns with a swirl of his coat and walks away toward the busier streets of London.

Lyall watches him go, the dandy cut of his clothes, his confident stride. He feels the desire to touch a hand to his lips, to accept the cold air and mortality in his bones if it means those lips on his again. Lyall breathes in deeply and tells himself some things should not be pursued. Relationships when mortals are involved never end well. Yet Lyall watches until the other man rounds a corner out of sight and, as he waits for his agents, he cannot stop thinking about Alessandro Tarabotti.

**Author's Note:**

> I know there are a few things in here not completely historically compliant, but it is steampunk fantasy so I'll blame that. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I also may be planning a huge Lyall/Tarabotti relationship story... not sure that is wise to undertake what with poor Lyall's pack life. We shall see!


End file.
